Art in Context
by V.G. Marks
Summary: Being a painting isn't as bad as Neville had feared.  NL & HP slash.


_A/N: This story contains elements of slash (Harry Potter/Neville Longbottom), but just barely. It's also chock-full of angst. If either of those things offend you, this probably isn't the fic for you! This story was originally written for the Nevillosity community on Livejournal's "Late Bloomer Ficathon" and written for Neko Chelle._

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Being a painting isn't as bad as Neville had feared. Of course, Neville's scared of everything, but that's all right because it often works out in his favour. If he sets his expectations low enough, when things work out, he's always happier than he would have been if he'd expected good things, and when things turn out as bad as they normally do, he can shrug his shoulders and tell himself he knew it all along.

At least, that's what he thinks he used to think. Neville's dead, so it doesn't matter much anymore.

He's been painted into a landscape, which is a relief, because he can still work with his plants, even if they're now made of paint, and the dirt's made of paint, and even the sun and wind and water are paint, too.

For now, he's finished working, so Neville stands and brushes off paint-hands on paint-coveralls, wiping his brow of paint-sweat as he squints and ambles into the painted shade. Not that he's ever _really_ hot or uncomfortable now; he doesn't even know if that's possible. He just wanted to visit the darker side of the frame today.

The one bad thing about being a painting is there are no other paintings of him, so he can't see what's happening at Hogwarts or St. Mungo's or even his Gran's house, not that that would matter since his Gran's dead, too. There are no other paintings in the house to visit either, because Harry destroyed them all years ago, but Neville hadn't liked those paintings very much anyway. So maybe it's best that he's confined to his frame.

Besides, he still has Harry. More importantly, Harry has him.

* * *

Neville doesn't remember dying, though Harry always pauses, swallows, and tells him he'd been very brave. He fell at the final battle against Voldemort, protecting Harry, and getting four -- no, five -- Order members to safety before a Killing Curse hit him in the back. Neville once wondered aloud if it had hurt, and Harry shook his head and told him it happened right away. The Ministry awarded him a posthumous Order of Merlin, First Class, and since his Gran was already dead, and his parents never stopped being crazy, they let Harry take it, even though they told him Harry wasn't family. 

Harry says Neville's his family and always will be, even though he's dead. Neville already knew that because Harry's his family, too.

Another bad thing about being a painting is he can't stop Harry from being sad. They talk all the time, talk like they did before Neville died and became a painting, and though Neville misses Harry terribly when he's gone, he holds out hope that when Harry leaves, it's to try and make himself happy again. Neville still loves Harry, is still in love with Harry, just like he always has been, and even though he doesn't think that can ever go away just because he's a painting, he still wants more than anything for Harry to move on.

One very _good_ thing about being a painting is never needing sleep; it's simply a way to pass the time. When Neville sleeps, he dreams of paint and of Harry, but when Harry sleeps, Neville is always awake. Harry still has nightmares, even though Voldemort's been dead a long time now, and he usually wakes up screaming for Ron or Hermione or Neville, and Neville yells back until Harry wakes up. Then, Neville holds a hand up to his canvas, and Harry touches it, and it's almost like he can feel the warmth from Harry's skin, even though he really can't.

He wants someone there _with_ Harry, not just watching him. There should be someone who can hold him and kiss him and brush his sweaty fringe off his forehead after a nightmare, even if that means Neville would be moved to the dining room or the attic. Neville can't do these things anymore, and he'd rather be hidden away than have Harry suffer forever.

Even though he's dead, Neville knows five years is too long.

* * *

"Neville," says a quiet, familiar voice, shaking him from his nap under the tree. His eyelids flutter open, and he smiles.

"Harry," he replies softly. "How was your day?"

Harry doesn't look very well, but Neville knows enough not to press the matter, especially as Harry kneels on his bed and lays his cheek flat against Neville's frame. He's been crying, and based on the bottle of Ogden's Harry holds in one hand, Neville figures he's also drunk. Neville bites his lower lip and kneels in his flowerbed, as close to the front of the scenery as he can.

"Oh, Harry," he sighs.

Harry lets out a choked noise, and falls over, spreading out on the bed that's his, but used to be theirs. "I miss you so much. Do you know what today is?"

Neville shakes his head. He doesn't even know if it's night or day; his own days are endless and paint-filled.

"You died five years ago today," Harry mumbles, seemingly shielding his eyes from very bright light, though Neville can see the room is dim, and he knows his paint-sun doesn't affect Harry.

"Oh."

"'Oh'?" repeats Harry, enraged. "Is that all you can say? You and Ron and Hermione all left me in one minute, and all you can say is _oh_? I've been alone for so_ long_, and all you can do is stare at me from your frame, and tell me over and over that it'll be all right some day! God, Neville, how long am I supposed to be like this? _When _does it get it better?" Harry's arm flies out and the bottle of alcohol shatters into a million zillion pieces, shards all over the floor and maybe the bed. Neville flinches involuntarily, and when he opens his eyes again, Harry's face fills his frame as fresh tears roll down his cheeks.

"I WAS THE ONE THAT WAS SUPPOSED TO DIE, NEVILLE, NOT YOU."

Neville's paint-sun burns out and his paint-sky bleeds as Harry drags the glass across Neville's landscape, again and again and again, until all that's left is Neville and his flowerbed. He thinks he'll be afraid of dying because Neville is afraid of everything, but he's not because he's already dead.

Neville is scared of leaving Harry alone.

"Harry," he murmurs, "this won't help."

Harry stops suddenly, and looks at the tattered remains of Neville's painting and the broken bottle in his hand, as though he doesn't quite understand how they got the way they did.

"Oh, God."

The bottle drops to the bed, and Harry falls over again, sobbing and sobbing and sobbing, until he falls asleep, whimpering still. Neville watches from his flowerbed, both paint-palms pressed to the canvas.

* * *

Being a painting isn't as bad as Neville had feared, and the restorers do a good job at putting him back together. The sun is more yellow than he remembers, and the sky more blue, but he's been through this before, and he supposes he will again. The shards of glass are all gone, and Harry's even made his bed. Maybe things will get better now; maybe Harry will try to find someone else who can make him happy.

Neville once told Harry he'd never leave him. Death hasn't changed that.

Harry watches as Neville works in his garden, smiling as Neville points out a red and gold Lyonhart, saying he's named this one after Harry.

"I'm sorry," says Harry.

Neville waves the apology away with one paint-hand. "It'll get better."

Harry is silent for a long while, so long that Neville forgets what they were talking about, so long that Neville gets tired of working in the garden and stands to brush dirt from paint-hands onto paint-coveralls, and falls asleep in the painted shade.

Neville dreams of paint and of Harry.


End file.
